Hero
by Solkongen
Summary: What is heroism? Is it storming into battle knowing you shall die honorably? Is it taking a bullet the man will remember your name with gratitude his entire life? Or is it sacrificing everything knowing that no one will ever learn of it?


**Hero**

**Author's Note:** I haven't written something in AGES, I know. I forgot how nice Fanfics are, because you get response from so many people (usually). Just basically been busy with my own novel, and haven't really had an idea.

This is an idea I've had for long time, just whirling about in my head. So I just figured I'd try it.

-o-o-o-

The walls are green, oddly enough. That special shade of olive. Like the uniforms. The uniforms out there, outside the walls. I convince myself I can hear gun fire. It's probably not too wrong, though.

The skies are gray, even though it's spring. What an odd spring this is. Spring is supposed to be the time of life – where everything blossoms, where dead things revive. Instead, the sprouts are spattered with blood and gore. Coagulating between the mighty walls of Dresden, drying out on the fields of Saarland. But in Berlin all of it is still fresh. And more of it is coming sill.

It seems my boots are the only sound in the long, green corridors. These halls are deserted. All of them are dead. Or dying. All of them escaped the sinking ship.

The door in front of me is shiny. It's oak. In here my secretary killed herself. It took a long time for them to clean her up, because they are all very busy. Lately there have been many suicides. Because the ship has sunk.

I sit down at my desk. The office is decorated with comfortable chairs. Silk and rare statues. Painting of long forgotten artists. Even a cabinet filled with fine brandy. I take a moment to watch it all, see it all. It is the last thing I shall ever see. It stands like the first day I came in here. When everything was pure. It was spring then, too. I was young and idealistic. And the leaves were not spattered with red back then. I slowly take the gun from my pocket. My hand puts it on the desk with a small sound. Outside it's noisy. It is a small revolver from my youth. And it's loaded.

The notebook is in my drawer. With a sound, a very noisy sound in the quiet of the green rooms, the lock in unlocked. The drawer slides open to reveal the black cover. It shines in the light of the lamp in the ceiling. There are no readable letters at the front. It is a strange language my brain does not know. Otherworldly. I lift it up and put it before me. Open it up to the third page, the free page. Strangely white.

I set the pen to the paper. A small, shiny dot of fluid is on the page. The monster stares at me from across the desk. Its bulging eyes are yellow, the hair is spiky. It is unbelievably thin, the monster. I have seen it devour nothing in my time but apples.

The scratching pen forms the names like a brush forms a masterpiece. Black and white, such a strange contrast. Really, black and white does not exist in the world. At least not in Man.

The monster chuckles, like it always does.

I lift the pen and look at the names. Counting down.

_Adolf Hitler. Commits suicide by shooting himself in the head with his gun. _

_Eva Braun. Commits suicide by taking her cyanide capsule…_

Slowly I close the notebook and give it to the monster. It receives it with another chuckle.

My hand placed itself on the gun's cool metal. Mankind must never know what horrible power it can have. What devastating acts it is capable of. With only a pen.

Before me lies my journal. I open it to the last page. It is filled with black ink. Letters telling about my last thoughts in life. In the upper right corner is the date. _What is true heroism?_ the first sentence says. The hand writing is like in the notebook of death the monster gave me.

I lift the revolver with a pace so slow it is nearly an abomination. The metal is icy cold against my temple. I wonder if it hurts. The bang is like a roar of thunder in my ear. After it comes the white lightning.

_What is heroism? Is it storming into battle knowing you shall die honorably? Is it taking a bullet the man will remember your name with gratitude his entire life? Or is it sacrificing everything knowing that no one will ever learn of it?_

_The Fuehrer has taken to his bunker. Lately his fits of rage have been those of an insane stranger. A liar with bulging eyes radiating madness. I see nothing of the man I would have once journeyed to Hell and back for. All I see now is a little coward. His dream of purity and peace smoldering to ashes between his chubby fingers. He is murdering the Jews in his camps when he himself is exactly like them. Never has Adolf Hitler looked like the fair-skinned, light haired people he does so adore. I have but dislike for him. _

_He feels he is protected between those walls of concrete. He is so deluded that he will not accept defeat. His puppets are all scum of a long-forgotten dream. Goebbels is a slick psychopath who would murder his own children could it benefit him. Donitz is an idiot good for nothing but firing a gun. _

_The Allies are fighting for Berlin against withering elders and small boys. The children have been brainwashed by the webs of Adolf Hitler. Their lives are wasted for a long since lost cause. Young blood is spilled on the stone steps of the Reichstag – the building made for democracy and freedom. _

_The Fuehrer cannot be reasoned with. He and the scum have an escape route. He plans to escape to South America and continue his quest for an impossible utopia. But I shall not allow him to live on. As long as Adolf Hitler and his puppets are still alive… then this awful war shall never end._

_I used to believe in the dream. I used to worship it in hopes of a peaceful world. And I awoke in the most painful of ways. I regret the acts I have taken against humanity. I die knowing that my soul is lost – but that I have done my part to redeem it._

_I die at peace._

-o-o-o-

**Author's Note:** Okay, so this is a little bit different than other fanfics. There are no Death Note characters (except for maybe Ryuk?) – only an OC. This might not be a good recipe for a story, but I like it myself. If you do too (or if you don't) then please review! If there are requests I may consider writing more to this story. Say, what happened to thi guy before all this? Or what if Napoleon or Osama bin Laden had a Death Note? And no, I don't know who my main character is. He is not a historical person :D. Also, please note that I am not in any way a Nazi – I was merely trying to get into this guy's character.


End file.
